


I Can Almost See You

by anextrapart



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9866801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anextrapart/pseuds/anextrapart
Summary: This can't be the end of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The AU exactly no one asked for. 
> 
> Set mid/post 4x09.

 

 

 

 

 

Norma wakes alone, a headache doing its damnedest to split her skull in two.

Shivering, she sits up and wonders why her room is so cold, why she's fully dressed on top of her unmade bed instead of tucked beneath the covers in her nightclothes. Glancing at her nightstand, she's baffled by the too-thick film of dust collected there—she'd dusted only a few days ago.

The feeling of wrongness intensifies as she rises and walks throughout the room, an eerie stillness about the place that she's never felt before despite the age of the house.

A crash sounds from downstairs and she jumps, heart leaping into her throat.

"Norman?"

Maybe he'd dropped something?

Not fully believing that explanation but unable to put her finger on _why_ , she hurries down the stairs and into the living room to investigate. Hopefully it isn't a burglar—she isn't really equipped to scare anyone off. She'd felt so much safer when she was still sharing the house with-

"Alex!"

Surprise colors her voice—their conversation yesterday had gone so poorly, she wasn't expecting to see him back here again. Yet it's undeniably him, even the back of his head and the expanse of his shoulders beneath his leather jacket achingly familiar to her now.

One of her lamps sits in shards at his feet.

"What's going on down here?"

He doesn't respond and she rolls her eyes as she walks toward him, petulant even with the unease still creeping through her veins.

"Really, Alex? The silent treatment?" He can be such a child sometimes. "I didn't realize you'd reverted to being twelve years old." She reaches for his arm to force him to turn and face her.

Her hand passes straight through him.

Disbelieving, she tries again. And again.

She switches hands, tries again.

Nothing.

It's so jarring that for a moment she can only stare at her own hands in horrified shock.

When she finds her voice, it's weak and trembling. "Alex?"

He turns and for a hopeful second she believes he's heard her, but his gaze sweeps around the room and never once lands on her.

He looks terrible—sick, maybe. Exhausted, certainly.

"Alex, what's happening?" He can't see her, can't hear her. This is a dream, surely. She had a terrible, exhausting, emotional day, and now she's dreaming. She'll wake up soon and Norman will be there to comfort her.

She pinches her own arm as hard as she can and it _hurts_.

Not a dream, then.

Looking around the room with a mounting level of desperation, she searches for an explanation or point of reference. Nothing jumps out, no convenient clues, and then Alex is _leaving_ , striding for the door with a brief, disinterested glance at the broken lamp on the carpet.

"Wait, you're just going to leave that there?" She follows him, indignant despite the significantly bigger problem in front of her. "All that broken glass and you're just going to leave it there for me to… to step on…"

Except that he wouldn't, would he?

Even though they'd fought, even if he were furious. He wouldn't risk her being hurt. The only way Alex would leave something hazardous in her house would be if he were certain it couldn't possibly hurt her, which makes no sense because _it's her house_ and of course she'll walk into this room eventually, it's not like she-

Oh.

 _Oh_ , she's-

A flurry of information hits her, images flashing through her mind—things she remembers seeing and feeling and things she couldn't have seen but somehow knows anyway.

Drifting off to sleep feeling heartsick and hopeful all at once.

Norman slipping away, silently making his way through the house to turn on the broken furnace and shut all the vents. 

Sudden noise, jarring movement, and Alex's desperate, pleading voice.

Norman looking on in horror. _Mother?_

Alex, again—later. _I love you_. _I always will, whether you’re here or not, okay?_

Drifting through darkness, stillness, nothingness _,_ until… here.

"Well, _shit_."

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

So. She's dead.

She _died_.

She doesn't feel dead. She feels… well, a lot of things at the moment, but shouldn't a dead person feel nothing at all? That's kind of the point isn't it? And shouldn't a dead person be… still dead? In a grave somewhere?

She doesn't know what to do with the information that Norman tried to kill them both. Never in a million years would she believe it to be true except that her hand just passed through her own husband's arm like she was made of vapor, and so at this point denial seems futile, if not outright insane.

Norman killed her.

Her perfect boy was so sick and confused that he killed her and nearly himself.

She feels strangely calm about it, truth be told. It's the shock, maybe. Or perhaps death simply grants a new perspective—an effective wakeup call. She'd understood on some level all along that Norman was beyond her control, but she'd convinced herself that it would all work itself out.

Denial's funny like that.

Hopefully he's safe and cared for—Norman needs doctors and people with compassion, not jail. He's alive, she at least knows that much. Somehow.

She needs to find him.

And Alex-

Alex is already out the door and halfway down the walkway.

The further away from her he gets the more uncomfortable she feels, as if something is tugging at her to keep the distance between them as short as possible. It isn't a force she has much interest in resisting—Alex has long been her safe haven, her calm in the storm. Why should that stop just because she's dead now?

She darts after him—somehow able to open and close the door without touching it, and she doesn't have the energy right now to even consider how in the hell she's able to do _that—_ and manages to catch up just as he reaches the gravel of the parking lot.

He doesn't notice her entering the passenger side of his SUV—not the door opening and shutting, not her annoyed huff at the seat being set so far back, not her buckling her seatbelt. And all this without actually touching anything directly.

Does she even need to buckle her seatbelt? She's dead, can she really become _more_ dead? Could some accident or mishap send her into a state of… permanent deadness?

Probably not worth the risk.

It's only once she's settled into her seat and tried to turn on the siren just to see if it would work—it didn't—that she realizes her wedding ring has returned to her finger.

She collapses back against the seat and stares at the ring in stunned relief. It's unclear to her how it got there. She'd like to think that Alex is responsible, but it's also possible it's a figment of her dead-not-dead state. She's in her favorite outfit, after all, and she certainly hadn't been wearing it when she'd died. The ring may only be there because she'd never wanted to take it off in the first place.

Either way, it's back where it belongs.

She doesn't pay much attention to where Alex is driving, only notes that since he isn't in uniform they probably aren't going to the station. Instead, she tries anything she can think of to catch his attention, going so far as to insult every one of his favorite sports teams. When even her brutally disparaging comments about the Blazers fail to elicit so much as an annoyed eye-twitch, she gives up and resigns herself to following him around silently until she figures this out.

Well, not _silently_. She has no intention of being silent. He just won't be able to hear her.

Alex parks in a lot in town that serves a cluster of small buildings, exiting the car with a door-slam that tells Norma all she needs to know about whether he wants to be here or not. Wondering what errand could possibly have him so annoyed, she follows him inside.

The door they enter doesn't give away any clues and leads to a small, empty waiting room without a receptionist. The room itself is simple, clean—clinical but trying to be homey in that way waiting rooms always fail to be.

Alex drops heavily into a chair and Norma still can't shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong with him. He just looks so dreadful.

 _Almost like he's grieving the death of his wife?_ pipes up a nasty little voice in her head.

She dismisses the thought. This is _Alex_. Sheriff _look-how-stoic-I-can-be_ Romero. He isn't emotionless, not by a long shot, but he doesn't fall apart. Not in a manner so blatantly obvious, at least.

Following his gaze—more of a glare, really—to a door opposite the one they'd entered from, she sees a simple nameplate which reads: _Timothy Harlow, Psy.D._

"Hold on, this is a _therapist's_ office?" Her head whips around to look at him. "You're seeing a therapist? But not- not because of _me_?"

It can't be. He'd surely been sad that she died, but _this_? This is too much, she's not-

The door Alex's eyes are burning a hole through opens, an older man appearing and waving him in.

"Alex, it’s good to see you." The man—Doctor Timothy Harlow, apparently—smiles warmly and offers his hand for Alex to shake. "How are you today?"

Alex accepts the handshake, but there's no warmth on his end. "Same as I've been every other time you've asked me that question."

Harlow gestures for Alex to sit on the couch opposite his own chair. "We've talked about this, you know I can't help you if you won't communicate.”

"And I've told you that I don't need your help. I'm only here because some bureaucrats decided they don't like the way I run my department and this is the best thing they could come up with to piss me off."

Harlow arches a reproachful eyebrow. "We both know that isn't why you're here."

Alex rubs at his eyes like he has a headache and Norma is willing to bet it's nearly a migraine. "Can you just sign whatever papers you need to sign so I can get back to doing my job?"

"You haven't been banned from doing your job," Harlow says patiently, as if it's something he's had to repeat many times before, "and you've been ordered to come here until I believe you're ready to stop, so you may as well try to get something out of it."

"This is a waste of time."

"The grieving process-"

" _Fuck_ the grieving process. I’ve done this shit before, I am well-fucking-acquainted with the grieving process."

"You've suffered a loss-"

"A _loss_ ," Alex repeats in disbelief. Mocking, but the first trace of an emotion that isn't anger slips in, a subtle crack in his voice. "I hate that, people always say that. Like it can be summed up so neatly, like I'm not walking around with this gaping hole in my body."

Norma stares at him, stunned. She knows that he loved her. But to see him like this is unreal, to hear him describe it like some crucial piece of him is missing…

She tries imagining herself in his place. What would her life have become if Alex were the one who died?

The pain that comes with the thought is sudden, crippling in its intensity, and she drops to sit beside him on the couch.

She could and would live without him, just as he continues to live without her, but it would be a slow agony—the rest of her days without even the faintest possibility of hearing his voice, feeling his calming presence, seeing his goofy, beautiful smile.

A life without her Alex.

She feels sick at the idea.

God, is this how he feels now?

"I love you so much," she whispers to him, taken aback by how fiercely she means it.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't react.

Harlow continues, "Sometimes all people can offer us in circumstances like these are their condolences. Grief is difficult to approach, especially when it stems from such a traumatic event."

"Sure." A sarcastic nod. "Your mom killed herself, too sick to remember that you needed her- so sorry for your loss. Your wife of two weeks died thinking you'd betrayed her- so sorry for your loss."

"It doesn't comfort you at all, people trying—however clumsily—to offer support, to help you?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Because she's still dead."

Norma hates how he says it like that—blunt, awful. Mad at the world and flinging his own grief around like a weapon.

"Can I make an observation?" Harlow asks in that same even, measured tone.

The question is met with an eye-roll from Alex along with a grumbled, "Can I stop you?" and Norma feels a burst of fondness for him. Isn't it odd how the thing she once hated most about him can be so endearing now? Her stubborn Sheriff Bulldog.

"I've noticed you don't wear a wedding band."

Alex flinches—an obvious, violent motion. "I told you our marriage was… impulsive. We didn't exactly do things conventionally."

"It was unconventional and so you didn't want a ring?"

Alex is silent for so long that Norma almost believes he won't answer the question at all, but then something in him just seems to deflate. He looks, if possible, even more exhausted than he did before.

"I wanted one," he says, soft, nigh guilty. His right thumb rubs agitatedly at the base of his left ring finger, directly over the spot Norma realizes suddenly, desperately, shouldn't be empty.

She never gave him a ring.

She'd _forgotten_ to give her husband a wedding ring.

"I didn't want to push her," Alex explains, expression pained. "I didn't mind waiting, I figured we had time..."

“You regret that.”

Alex's face twists further in grief. He's still rubbing at his glaringly empty ring finger.

"I regret a lot of things." He sighs, seems to force his right hand to stop fidgeting and runs it over the top of his head instead. "It doesn't really mean anything—plenty of good husbands don't wear rings and plenty of terrible ones never take theirs off."

"It would have meant something to you, though."

"I liked seeing her wearing her ring," he admits. "Should have told her."

"You could still tell her. Do you ever talk to her?"

Alex looks askance. "She's dead. I'm not insane."

"It's not insane. It can be cathartic to give voice to what you're feeling, to have somewhere to direct those thoughts. You don't necessarily need to believe that she can hear you." Harlow hesitates slightly before asking, "Have you been able to visit her grave yet?"

Alex shakes his head, jaw clenched. He's back to worrying his empty ring finger.

"It makes me sick," he finally grits out. "The thought of it, of her in the ground like that- I _can't_ -" He shakes his head again, refusing to finish the thought. "It's stupid."

"I doubt that very much."

Alex swallows roughly and shrugs at the floor. "She was always cold. Even in the house. I just... I don't want her to be cold."

Sniffling, Norma wipes tears from her eyes.

Truth be told, she's been freezing since she woke up.

Harlow gives Alex a sympathetic smile. "You need to remember that none of this is your fault."

"It is, though," Alex says.

Norma's breath is sucked out of her in a sudden rush. " _What_?"

"I didn't do what I knew needed to be done because I couldn't stand the idea of her hating me." The defeated slump to his shoulders makes him look oddly small.

"You feel like you let her down?"

Alex nods haltingly, and Norma feels a rapid tightening in her chest.

"Oh, honey, _no_." All her life, people have let her down. Again and again and none of them ever seemed to care. She's never been able to count on anyone but herself.

Alex, though. Alex has been there for her so many times, even when she probably didn't deserve it. Perhaps most importantly when she didn't deserve it.

She could never blame him for this.

Harlow, it seems, agrees with her. "I don't think you let her down. It sounds to me like you loved her enough to respect her wishes, to trust her to make her own decisions. A terrible thing happened. Sometimes terrible things can't be prevented."

“She's gone either way, so saying that really does fuck-all for me."

Harlow leans forward in his chair. "What if she weren't?"

Alex sighs tiredly. "What?"

"What if she weren't gone?" His gaze shifts away from Alex, landing just to his left.

"If she could hear you right now," Harlow asks Alex while locking eyes directly with Norma, "what would you tell her?"

Norma gapes at him. "Hold on, can you-? Can you _see me_?"

Harlow winks at her while Alex shrugs, says, "That I'd do anything to fix it."

Her eyes narrow. "You've been able to see me this whole time?"

A nod of confirmation, which Alex somehow doesn't register despite him looking directly at Harlow while he does it.

She's getting real sick of this magic bullshit.

Harlow looks away from her, directing his full attention back to Alex.

"And would you?" he asks.

Alex's brow furrows. "Would I what?"

"Do anything?"

"Of course."

Harlow studies him intently for a moment before leaning back in his chair, smiling. "I believe you."

Alex rolls his eyes. "Fantastic."

"Hey, therapist guy!" Norma waves her hands in the air as obnoxiously as possible, her arm actually passing through Alex a few times. "You can't just ignore me now!"

He proceeds to do exactly that until the end of Alex's session.

It's only once Alex is up and heading for the door that Harlow turns back to her.

"You certainly took your time. I was hoping you'd be back soon." He gestures to Alex, concerned and openly fond. "He's struggling."

"'Took my time'? How long have I been gone? And who the hell are you, why doesn't he notice you talking to me? Why can't he see me?"

"No time to explain all that now, I'm afraid. Stick close to him."

"But-"

"We'll talk more next time," Harlow interrupts smoothly. "I won't even charge you."

"Charge me-?" Oh, the smug bastard. "Was that a _joke_? You're making _jokes_?"

He has the decency to look contrite, at least.

Alex is gone from sight now and Norma wavers in place slightly, feeling lightheaded.

"You need to follow him," Harlow urges. "The further away from you he gets, the more unpleasant it's going to feel."

"No, I want answers!"

"Next time. I promise."

There's a pounding behind her eyes now, a growing pressure in her head, and so she turns from him with a huff and hurries after Alex.

Fucking therapists.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Considering it's been a while since she's been here, Norma figures it's understandable that she doesn't realize Alex is driving them to the cemetery until they're already in the parking lot.

Apparently he's decided he has something to prove.

"You're really doing this now?"

The stubborn idiot.

Walking with him along the path between the neat rows of headstones, she tries to take his hand in hers, somehow forgets until her fingers pass right through him that she can't offer even that small comfort. She keeps close to his side anyway, near enough that if she were solid their arms would brush.

He seems to know where he's going, despite his assertion of never visiting, and before long they're standing at a headstone bearing the name Norma Louise Bates. It's supremely unsettling. Nothing quite like seeing your own grave to really drive home the concept that you're dead.

Alex stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched beneath his jacket.

"Hi," he says, flatly.

She nearly chokes on the memory of another time he'd said that to her, all mussed hair and sleepy smile and morning sunlight.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say to… this. To you." 

Norma watches him glance to the side a few times as if contemplating leaving, but then he steps forward and lowers himself to sit cross-legged in front of the grave.

It seems strange to loom over him and so she sits beside the headstone to face him—at least this way she can pretend it's a real conversation. She frets briefly about sitting on the ground until she remembers that nothing physical can affect her. Under different circumstances she'd delight in the concept, but just now, she'd gladly accept some grass stains on her favorite dress if in exchange it meant she could hold her husband's hand.

He looks like he needs it.

"This is ridiculous," he blurts out. "Pretending you can hear me. I know you can't, I just…" A trembling sigh, his fingers picking restlessly at the folds in his jeans.

She reaches out, hand hovering in empty air between them.

"I haven't been doing too well."

She hears the beginning of tears in his voice and it dawns on her strangely that while she's certainly seen him upset before, she's never seen him cry.

"I was on my way over that night, you know. I was coming home, I was coming to tell you-" His voice cracks and he pauses, swallowing thickly. "-to tell you that I didn't ever want to be without you."

Laughter is torn from his throat then, an ugly, broken sound. "What a fucking joke, right?"

A few tears escape his eyes and he swipes at them roughly while Norma longs to do it instead, to treat him far more gently than he's treating himself.

"I'm sorry I was late," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry, baby." 

She wants to sob, to scream—presses her fingers to her lips to hold it back.

"We could have fixed it, don't you think? We were happy, weren't we?"

"I was so happy with you," she says through tears, feeling compelled to voice it even if he can't hear her. "Alex. Of course I was."

"My whole life, I don't think I've ever been so happy." He stares at the ground in front of him, absently shredding blades of grass. "Never told you that. Never told you a lot of things."

You could fill a book with all she hasn't told him. Big things, huge parts of her life that she's never told anyone but thinks she would like for him to know, and small, inconsequential things, like how she can't whistle, how she loves the ocean but hasn't been to a beach in years, how she's more than once considered hiding all of his shirts except for the plain black tees that fit him so well.

Finally, impossibly, she's found someone she can tell all these things, someone she wants to give her secrets to, and he can't hear a word she says.

Irony is a heartless bitch.

"All that time I was staying in the motel, the best part of my day was when I'd get back after work and you were in the office. I'd make up the stupidest reasons to come talk to you, do you remember?"

She does. "You did mention the weather an awful lot."

"I must have brought up the weather over twenty times. You always had something to talk about though, something you were interested in or excited about. Didn't matter what asinine thing I started the conversation with, it still felt like you were happy to see me."

"I was. I never understood why you kept coming by to listen to me ramble on about things you didn't care about."

It had seemed so strange to her at first—it felt like he was checking up on her. Not in an _I care about you_ kind of way, but in an _I want to make sure you're not up to anything_ kind of way.

Yet somehow it shifted over time, to the point where his presence was no longer an odd stilted interaction or even a surprise, but instead something she could look forward to each day. Her little evening chats with Alex, when she felt like she was talking to someone really listening, when she first began to realize that he could actually be _nice_ when he wasn't trying so hard to be stoic.

He finally looks up from the grass. "I fell in love with you in that office."

That can't be right.

All this time, he can't have possibly-

"I still love you," he says, helpless in a way she's never heard him before. _I always will,_ Norma hears as an echo, _whether you’re here or not, okay?_

If she can't figure out a way to fix this, if she can't find a way back to him-

Well. That's just not an option. She's always been stubborn, there's no reason to start slacking off now. Maybe the weird therapist can help her makes sense of it all.

She quickly shifts from her seated position next to the headstone and kneels directly in front of Alex, putting herself eye-level with him.

"I told you I'm not giving you up." Her hands raise to cup his jaw, hovering just above his skin. "I'll figure this out, Alex. I promise."

He sighs and shakes his head, and while she knows it has nothing to do with her last statement and everything to do with whatever he's thinking right now, it fuels her resolve even more.

This can’t be the end of them.

Alex gets to his feet, giving the grave a long, sad look before stepping back. He starts to walk away, turns back after just a few short steps.

"Wherever you are," he says, sounding hesitant, sounding _shy,_ of all things, "Norma, if you're anywhere…"

He shrugs, ducks his head.

"I hope you're warm," he whispers.

She still isn't.

But knowing that he wants her to be?

It helps.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

On tumblr ([x](http://anextrapart.tumblr.com/post/157557946038/i-can-almost-see-you))


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

She accompanies Alex home from the cemetery and watches him mechanically go about his evening.

He's always been regimented, but he's never seemed so _lifeless_ to her before. She doesn't doubt that he barely tastes a bite of his dinner—a meal she worries over because he clearly isn't eating enough and what he does manage isn't at all healthy.

He's not looking after himself. Not because he doesn't know how—he isn't one of those pathetic men that can't fend for themselves without a woman around. He simply doesn't seem to have the will to try.

She just wants to take care of him. Wants to make him something warm and delicious to eat, to take him to bed and hold him close until all the hurt goes away.

The truth is, looking after him makes her happy. He accepts it so gratefully, meets her every attempt at comfort with barely disguised disbelief and shy little smiles she once would never have believed him capable of. He seems almost starved for affection at times and she can't help but feel proud that she gets to be the one to give it to him.

Or, she used to be. Now all she can do is watch as he gets ready for bed, looking so lonely that it brings fresh tears to her eyes and strengthens the ache in her chest.

When he officially began sharing her bed, they'd had a playful argument over who would sleep on which side—they both strongly preferred the left. He'd let her win in the end, laughing into her hair as he curled his body snugly around her.

Seeing him collapse into his bed tonight, firmly on the right side with his back to the left, she wonders how it's even possible for a dead person to feel her heart break.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

The following morning dawns a rainy grey, leaving Norma to glare out the window while she waits for Alex to wake up. It hardly seems fair. She's dead, he's grieving—couldn't it at least be _sunny_?

He'd finally fallen asleep just a few hours ago and it doesn't appear to be particularly restful—he twitches occasionally and mumbles things she can't quite make out. If this is how he's sleeping every night, it's no wonder he looks so exhausted.

Since dead people apparently have no use for sleep—she doesn't feel the least bit tired—she'd curled up in the chair in the corner of his bedroom to watch over him. Time moves so strangely for her now. A whole night has come and gone but she didn't feel it pass in the same way she would when she was alive. It's easier to drift, to let the hours flow by without feeling restless or bored.

Alex jolts awake with a strangled shout.

He sits up, still half under the blankets, and drops his forehead to rest on his bent knees, his fingers clutching at the back of his head as he struggles to calm his breathing.

" _Fuck._ "

Norma hurries over to sit on the bed at his hip. "It's okay, Alex," she whispers, hands hovering uselessly at his shoulders, the nape of his neck. She'd give anything to be able to let him know that she's here. "It was just a dream, everything's going to be fine."

Alex exhales shakily before lifting his head and rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. More rest would do him a world of good, but she isn't the least bit surprised when he rises and heads for the bathroom instead of going back to sleep.

It's impossible to miss how he blatantly avoids looking at the left side of the bed.

When she hears the shower turn on she wanders out to his kitchen and mentally plans the breakfast she'd make for him this morning if she could. Cinnamon rolls, maybe, made from scratch—something sweet and comforting that would fill the house with warmth while they baked. He'd smile for her and they could sit out on his back porch while they ate, curl up under a blanket together and watch the storm while staying cozy and dry.

The daydream slips away when Alex emerges from his room, dressed casually and confirming her suspicion that he won't be going to the station today—it's later than he would normally need to leave to get to work on time.

Her hands are restless for him. During their marriage she'd discovered dozens of wonderful little ways to touch him and moments like these are some of her favorites, when he's still shower-warm and she can press close and let his arms and the sharp scent of his soap envelop her.

It isn't until just now that she realizes she's lost the ability to smell along with the ability to touch.

One more layer of comfort gone.

Alex pours himself a mug of coffee from the timer-brewed machine on his kitchen counter, making her wince when he drinks it black and scalding. He doesn't take his coffee black—he drinks it lighter than she does, in fact, so she's willing to bet there's simply no milk in the fridge.

Or this is some weird form of self-punishment.

"Would you at least eat something with that, please?"

He takes a granola bar down from a box in one of the cabinets and while she'd prefer he eat a proper breakfast, at least he isn't trying to exist on black coffee alone.

His morning is spent on the couch flicking through various sports talk programs. Norma has never really been one for sports, but she quickly decides she'd be more than willing to have lazy mornings like this with him.

The afternoon isn't far off when his phone rings and he picks it up off the coffee table before she can see the caller ID. His brow furrows slightly in concern when he sees whoever's calling, and he greets the caller with a gruff, "Everything okay?"

Never one for phone pleasantries, her Alex.

He listens for a moment, relaxes and hesitates before nodding. "Yeah, alright. Noon work for you?" A beat. "Sure. The burger place?"

Lunch plans, then. That's good. He should get out, she doesn't want him moping around the house all day.

Alex wraps up the call and hangs up, disappearing back into his bedroom for a few moments before returning ready to go out. She follows him out to the car, wondering which of his friends he's meeting.

She's stunned twenty minutes later when they exit the car in the restaurant's parking lot and she sees that his lunch meeting is with Dylan.

They greet each other with that bizarre handshake/one-armed-hug thing that men do sometimes and it thrills her to see them getting along. She doesn't expect she'll ever get to see all three of her boys together and happy, but if she can't have that then this is the next best thing.

It feels like family.

If only she were alive to be part of it.

They claim a booth near the back of the restaurant and she's able to slide in on the bench next to Alex and observe Dylan from across the tabletop. He looks so grown up, somehow.

The two of them chat for a while, sports and politics and small talk that Norma happily lets wash over her. They're in a restaurant and so Alex can't get away without eating a proper meal, for which she's grateful. She wonders idly if Dylan knows this, planned it that way. He's such a thoughtful boy.

They're starting their meals when Alex asks, "How's Emma?"

"She's making a list of all the stuff she wants to do now that she's well." Dylan smiles fondly. "She's got this massive jar that we're supposed to throw our spare change into—saving up for road trips and stuff like that."

"Planning to get into trouble all across the country?"

" _Me_?" He feigns offense. "I never get into trouble."

"Right, sometimes I forget you're an upstanding citizen now with a legitimate job and everything."

"A job _with benefits_ ," Dylan emphasizes, grinning. "I even wear a tie sometimes."

"You're like a real adult," Alex agrees with a flash of a smile.

Dylan's expression falters, gaze dropping to his unfinished lunch. "Mom would've liked it," he says. "Maybe."

Norma's heart clenches as she remembers their last conversation. She'd never quite been able to express how impressed with Dylan's resilience she is, how _proud_ of him-

"She'd be proud of you," Alex says in a tone leaving no room for argument.

And if Norma weren't already hopelessly in love with him, she would be now.

He's taking care of her son.

She's given Dylan so little in his life, she's glad she at least gave him this—someone to look out for him, even now that he's old enough to fend for himself.

Alex waits for Dylan to look up from his plate before insisting again, "She would, Dylan. She was."

"Emma says so, too." He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "Sometimes I think she misses mom as much as I do."

Hearing that is as painful as it is touching and Norma has a fierce need to see her, suddenly. Emma is such a dear.

Dylan can't quite meet Alex's eyes when he blurts out, "I went to see him."

Alex stiffens even while saying, "You don't need to sound so guilty about it."

"I know, but after what he did-"

"He's your brother," Alex cuts him off, "and we both know that he did it because he's ill."

"Did you want to-? For like… closure, or whatever?"

"No. I can rationalize it sitting here, but if I saw him I think I'd kill him."

Dylan nods. "Can't say I blame you."

Alex pushes some fries around on his plate. "How's he doing?"

"What, you care?"

Alex shrugs, hesitating before quietly offering,

"She'd care."

Norma starts crying, then.

She just wants another chance. More _time_. She had a family that loved her, each of them in the best way they knew how, and she just couldn't do right by any of them could she? She broke Norman, alienated Dylan. Neglected Emma. She dragged Alex into her mess and then left him all alone.

She ruined everything.

"He's… better and worse, I guess," says Dylan. "He has medicine and doctors now so that's helping, but it means he's starting to understand what he did. He misses mom, but he still doesn't always know what's real."

Alex doesn't appear to have a response to that, simply nodding in acknowledgment.

Dylan studies him quietly for a moment before asking, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How are you doing? I mean, last time I saw you you'd just gone all Rambo on those guys-"

"That's an exaggeration and you know it-"

Dylan smirks. "Wasn't the one dude unconscious for like a week?"

"-and they weren't _guys_ , they were violent criminals."

"Whatever, man. Got your ass sent to therapy. Question still stands."

So _that's_ what got him sent to see Harlow. She can picture it—Alex, raw with grief and nowhere to direct it, no one to punish, channeling all of that pain and anger into effective but dangerous law enforcement. He must have been furious when they told him he needed to go to therapy in order to keep his job.

He makes a vague hand gesture at Dylan. "I'm about the same."

"Emma thinks you should get a dog."

"What would I do with a dog?"

"Take it for walks and stuff, I guess? She says pets are good for grief."

It actually does sound like a good idea, but Norma is left to watch Alex brush the suggestion off and direct the conversation elsewhere.

They finish up their lunches shortly after that, settling the bill—they bicker over who will pay and Alex wins—before heading out to the parking lot together.

It's raining sluggishly, not quite enough to need enough umbrella, and Dylan scuffs at a puddle with the sole of his shoe.

"Hey, Alex? Does it ever..." He trails off, staring at his shoes.

_Does it ever get better?_

_Does it ever stop hurting?_

_Do you ever stop missing your mom?_

Norma can tell just from the set of Alex's jaw that he wants to lie, but won't.

"Not really. You just..." He sighs, shrugs. "Eventually, I think you just figure out how to live with it."

"How?" He sounds so very young. Norma wants to hug him more than anything.

Alex gives him a pained smile. "I'll let you know once I figure it out."

Nodding to himself like that was the answer he expected, Dylan returns the smile with one equally strained. "You really should get a dog. Maybe we should get one, too," he adds.

"I don't think dogs are going to fix this one, kid.”

Dylan shrugs helplessly. "Can't hurt."

They say goodbye, and though it's brief and a little stiff, they hug for real this time.

She wants to be near them both, to stay close to Dylan even just a bit longer, but that strange pull keeps her at Alex's side. She can only watch as her firstborn climbs into his pickup and drives away.

She hopes she'll get to see him again.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

"So, I'm back."

They’re in the cemetery again. She doesn’t love what it says about his state of mind but she does, selfishly, like that when they’re here he’s at least talking _to_ her.

He sits quietly for what must be fifteen minutes. She's starting to worry about him by the time he finally finds more words.

“I slept a little better last night."

God, that was _better_?

"Maybe this actually helped. It makes sense, I guess—remember when you said I made you feel safe? I think you'd have laughed if I told you, but I felt safe with you, too."

"I wouldn't have laughed." She might have laughed. It seems ridiculous—what could she possibly hope to protect Sheriff Alex Romero from?

"You always were stronger than me."

She _does_ laugh at that, more out of disbelief than actual good humor. "You're going to need to elaborate on that one, hon, because I know it's not true."

He doesn't elaborate, naturally, choosing instead to sink back into silence. Stubborn jerk.

The weather has cleared from that morning’s drizzle at least, so she can be grateful that he’s getting some sun and fresh air. She has a hunch that he hasn’t spent much time outside recently.

She’s halfway through drafting the lecture she’ll eventually give him about taking better care of himself when he interrupts her train of thought.

"I don't think this was supposed to happen to us,” he says. “It feels like a mistake. Like one day soon someone is going to tell me there was a mixup and that the world isn't actually this horrible." 

His hands clench into fists in his lap, weapons without a target.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he repeats with more conviction, some of that classic Romero stubbornness bleeding through.

And for just a second, for a brief, fleeting instant, Norma can feel the warmth of the sun on her skin.

By the time she realizes what's happening, by the time she reaches out to see if she's solid enough to touch him, it's over.

"Say that again," she pleads, scrambling to his side and trying to touch his shoulders, his cheek. "Damn it, Alex, say it again!"

He doesn’t though, backtracking from that brief indignation and returning to the helpless grief he’s been inhabiting.

“Everything feels wrong. Like being a little kid, when something bad happens and you're tired and all you want in the world is to go home? I can't shake that feeling, that I just want to go home, but you're-"

He clears his throat suddenly, eyes wet.

"But there's nowhere to go,” he finishes.

She swears she can feel her body collapsing beneath the weight of it all. She can’t bear to see him like this anymore. He’d have been better off if they’d never met, better off if she’d at least been unselfish enough not to get him tangled up in her ridiculous life.

“I’m sorry, Alex.” What a pitiful thing, an apology from his dead wife that he can’t even hear.

"I don't regret it, you know.” His voice is clear of tears now. He’s as serious as she’s ever heard him. “Marrying you. Even now."

How can that be possible?

He doesn't say goodbye, doesn't say if he's coming back or not. Instead, once he stands and dusts himself off, he rests his hand briefly on her headstone, fingers tapping out a short awkward rhythm.

The depth of his devotion to her is astonishing. People don't actually love like this, do they? Outside of fairy tales? Not in real life. Not for someone like her.

And yet...

There he is.

His hand falls back to his side, emptier than she's ever seen a hand look before. 

"I still love you."

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She doesn't have much right to complain, considering what Alex is suffering, but the fact remains that being dead is _boring_.

The days are difficult, idling away when normally she would be completing some task or another around the house or the motel.

Alex needs to go to work most days and so she needs to go to work with him. He seems to be on some type of temporary leave that lets him still act as Sheriff but restricts him to the station and his office.

It leaves him understandably ill-tempered.

Consequently, it leaves her to sit in his office and try to entertain herself. Most days she reads boring paperwork over his shoulder and makes quips about his staff that she knows he would find funny if he could only hear her.

He does little else other than work or linger around at home. He smiles even less than he did when she first met him.

The late nights are somehow easiest for her, those hours when she should be sleeping. Time can flow right past her then, let her feel calm and settled.

Calm and settled, that is, until Alex inevitably wakes from a terrible nightmare and she's can only watch him struggle to cope with whatever his subconscious has forced him to endure. It's rare that he goes a night without waking up at least once with a bitten-off shout, rarer still for him to sleep for more than a few hours total.

It would be nice to believe that the nightmares are at least about different things, but she's heard him mutter her name enough times in his sleep now to know better--heard him pleading with her over and again to _wake up_ or _don't go_ or _come back_. He frequently jolts awake with apologies on his lips.

The pain of not being able to comfort him worsens every time, and the only thing that ever seems to bring him any measure of peace after he’s woken from a nightmare is to look at the photos.

She’d been shocked on her second night watching over him to discover that he has photos of her, of them, on his phone.

Not in a creepy way. Nice photos.

One is of them together at the winter festival, the same photo that had been in the newspaper.

Another she recognizes as one she'd taken herself. Playing around one day, she'd tried and failed to convince him to take a selfie with her. The end result was a poorly orchestrated sneak-attack and a photo of her laughing while kissing his cheek, his face scrunched up in that way they both pretended she still believed meant he was annoyed with her.

He'd somehow taken all of the other photos without her noticing.

Her in the kitchen making tea.

Her busy behind the desk in the motel office.

Her still asleep some morning that he'd risen early, sunlight filtering in through the window behind her.

They're lovely. If she'd found him out sooner, seen them when she was still alive, she'd have thought it terribly sweet.

Now…

Well, now it just seems terribly sad.

He deserves more than a handful of photos—she wants to give him years' worth of happy memories. She'd never have thought it at the start, but happiness suits him. He wasn't built for solitude. It's what he'd created for himself, what he'd probably convinced himself he wanted or needed or deserved, but he took to their marriage almost effortlessly. Like he'd been waiting for it.

Her Alex wasn't built for solitude, but maybe… maybe he was built for her.

Maybe their pasts, every good or bad thing that ever happened to them, maybe that all happened so they would fit together just right when the time came. It would almost make up for all the things they’ve endured. It would be perfect, the most wonderful kind of story.

It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Alex seems to be turning visits to her grave into a regular event—it’s the third time he’s been by in as many days.

"I was mad at you today." 

That’s new. She’d realized that morning he was angry at something—the number of doors he’s slammed so far is bordering on the ridiculous—but she hadn’t yet figured out the source.

"Why couldn't you listen to me?" Seated in his customary spot on the grass, he glares at her headstone like he wants it to answer him. "You never listened to me, I just needed you to do it this one time. If you'd just signed the form he would have gone back to Pineview and everyone would have been safe."

"He's my son, Alex. My little boy. I wasn't ready, you can't possibly understand-"

"I know it would have been hard for you, I know how hard it is to send family to a place like that—my mom was in and out of places like Pineview my whole life. I had to be the one to take her, once I was old enough to sign the papers and my dad was beyond giving a shit.”

Oh.

“Three times, I had to do it. Then, the fourth time… she begged me not to. I was so close, I was going to do it anyway, but in the end I couldn’t go through with it. And she was so grateful, she seemed so much better. Better than I’d seen her in years.”

She smiles a little, imagining Alex spending happy times with his mother, but the smile melts off her face once she registers the expression on his.

“A few weeks later, she was gone.”

Oh, god.

 _She’s been dead 22 years_ , he’d said. _Suicide._

Norma can’t imagine him not blaming himself, though she aches to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. To think that he’s been carrying it around all this time—not just the grief of his mother’s suicide, but the responsibility he puts on himself for not preventing it-

"You said I didn't love you,” he blurts out, apropos of nothing. “That day in my office. You said…“ 

He looks as unmoored as a person can be, as if they’d been told with all confidence that the sky isn’t blue or that water isn’t wet. As if the ground had dropped out beneath them.

“You said I didn’t love you."

She doesn’t fully remember saying it, though she believes him. She was lashing out, trying to hurt him, and that sounds exactly like something she would say to push him away. How desperately she regrets it now, considering how it all played out.

“I was just trying to keep you safe,” he whispers. “Both of you.”

It’s so much clearer in hindsight, isn’t it? To know that he would never intentionally hurt her, that he wasn’t trying to control her. To remember that he’d proven himself to have her best interests in mind.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner how I felt. That I made you doubt me.”

“Alex…”

“I’m sorry that I’m mad at you now.” He looks so guilty. “It wasn’t your fault.”

It was. She knows that now more than ever.

"I still love you."

She knows that, too.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She tries curling up on the left side of his bed when he settles down to sleep, begs him to turn and face her. Surely he'll see her, _here_ he'll see her, and then everything will be golden again.

Night after night she tries, to no success. Her frustration grows until one night, _finally_ , he rolls over to face the left side of his bed and stretches his hand out into the expanse of sheets.

She hates watching him cry.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been about a week since the last appointment—she doesn’t have a great sense of time these days—when Alex returns to the therapist’s office.

She doesn’t give Harlow a chance to speak, rushing over to point a finger at him threateningly.

“You owe me an explanation, therapist guy.”

He ignores her, greeting Alex as he did last time and gesturing for him to take a seat. Alex does, and that’s when things get weird.

“Holy shit, did you just stop time?” She peers closely at Alex, who is frozen still to the point of not blinking. It’s… fairly creepy.

Harlow nods. “For all intents and purposes, yes. Though technically what I’ve done is slow time down to the point at which-“

“Okay, stop, I don’t care that much.” She waves her hands impatiently. “Just explain what’s going on with me. What is this, some crap where I watch over the people I love and it gives me the closure I need to _go into the light_?"

“Well, we can certainly do that if it's what you want. But I was thinking you might prefer to be with your husband again." He smiles in a way that she finds—much to her annoyance—comforting.

“You can do that?"

"I can help. But it will take time,” he cautions.

_Of course._

“Then you need to fix him first. He isn't sleeping. You need to make him sleep."

“I can’t _make_ him do anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “Then _help_ him sleep.”

Harlow looks just shy of rolling his eyes at her in return—which she does _not_ appreciate—and directs his attention back to Alex.

"How are you feeling this week?” He asks, jumping right in. “How have you been spending your time?"

Alex shrugs. “Working."

“Is there something you would enjoy doing in the time when you aren’t working? Any other interests or hobbies?"

"I'm a big fan of scrapbooking," Alex deadpans.

Norma rolls her eyes. So _stubborn_. "He likes fishing."

Harlow glosses right over the scrapbooking comment. “I know you’d probably prefer something without other people right now, so what about something to help get you outside more? Fresh air can do wonders for the mood.”

“Wonderful. Can it resurrect people as well?”

Harlow ignores that, too.

“What about hiking? Or fishing?”

" _No_."

Harlow studies at him curiously, and Norma does the same—that seemed strangely vehement.

Alex sighs at the questioning look. "I was going to take her once the weather got nicer.” He shrugs. “She would have hated it."

"I might not have!" (She definitely would have.)

"I mean _really_ hated it." The tiniest of smiles creeps onto his face. “She was funny when she was annoyed."

"You're a jackass," she tells him, unbearably fond.

He likes fishing and so he wants to take her fishing.

Harlow seems to decide to stop poking that particular nerve and changes the subject.

“How has your sleep been?”

Alex shrugs. “I usually manage a few hours.”

“We need to try and get you sleeping normally. _Real_ sleep, not just collapsing when your body can't hold out against the exhaustion anymore."

"I lie down at night. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don’t. I don’t see what else there is to do about it.”

“There are plenty of things to try—relaxation methods, breathing techniques, medication if it comes to that.”

“I’m not taking sleeping pills.”

“Then we’ll focus on the other techniques. What’s most important is for your mind to be as calm as possible.”

Alex scoffs. “I don’t see that happening.”

“When you’re trying to fall asleep, what’s keeping you awake? Which thoughts aren’t allowing you to find rest?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Alex remains stubbornly silent.

“It’s important for you to voice these things, Alex,” Harlow presses. “What’s the main thought keeping you awake at night?”

Refusing to meet his eyes, Alex stares at the carpet, his hands clenched into fists.

“I want my wife,” he says in a strangled whisper.

Norma can’t take it anymore.

"Tell him,” she orders Harlow.

He ignores her.

"Tell him that I'm here!"

He refuses, and so she drops to her knees in front of where Alex is seated on the couch, shifts until she’s at his eye-level.

"Honey, look at me."

He continues to stare through her.

"Look at me. _Please_. I'm right here, Alex. Alex!“

She feels herself starting to slip into panic, repeating his name over and over in increasingly frantic tones and pleading with him to see her. She can’t stand it anymore, watching his grief overwhelm him. She _can’t_.

Still on her knees, she turns to Harlow.

"I know I broke his heart, okay? I get it. I didn't listen to him, I died, and I completely broke the heart of the best man I've ever known. I did terrible things in my life and I understand why I'm being punished, but don't do this to him. You need to stop it, you need to stop hurting him."

Harlow waves a hand, and she knows without looking that Alex has frozen in time again so that they can talk.

"You aren't being punished, Norma.“

"Then can't you just bring me back?"

“I don’t have the power to do that.”

"But this is killing him! What good are you? You said you're here to help but you're not _doing anything_ , you're just letting him suffer. You haven't told him that I'm here, you haven't told either of us the way out of this!"

“The way out of this is deceptively simple.”

He pauses, and Norma loses what little bit of patience she still held.

“ _Well?_ ”

And then, completely stone-dead serious, Harlow says,

“He needs to believe."

Oh, come _on_.

"Are you kidding me? He needs to _believe_?" she scoffs. “So, what, he's just supposed to wake up one morning believing in _magic_?"

“It will be a more gradual progression than that,” Harlow says as though it isn’t completely batshit insane.

"That’s ridiculous. This is _ridiculous_.” She has a headache. She’s dead and she has a headache because of how ridiculous this all is. “How is this even happening?"

"Haven't you ever wondered how a town like White Pine Bay survives?"

"Inefficient national government?" she bites.

"That does help." He has the audacity to smile before sobering again. “But this town, the land it’s built on, is incredibly old. There's a certain magic in a place like this. While it is somewhat self-sustaining, there are many forces at work to aid in protecting it…”

Norma sighs, understanding and finishing his thought, ”And Alex protects things."

"That he does." He nods toward Alex with a certain amount of pride. “He's earned this."

"Are you telling me that the literal town is thanking him?”

"In a way. For many years, and rather unknowingly, Alex has acted as a guardian. It's been longstanding that if and when the time came, he would be given a gift. It isn't yet conscious on his part, but you've been brought back and held here through the sheer strength of his refusal to accept the reality of the circumstances in front of him."

_Oh._

Norma sniffles, wiping tears from her eyes. "He always has been been a stubborn bastard."

"He loves you a tremendously great deal,” Harlow says, gently.

That's apparently the understatement of the century.

“And why can't you just tell him?"

"There are rules. I can only guide him."

How convenient. “Whose rules? Who's in charge of you? Let me talk to them."

"That's not possible. I’m afraid you simply need to be patient."

"I'm not worried about _me_." She flings a gesturing hand towards Alex that probably would have hit him if she were solid. “He's the one that's not eating or sleeping."

“He’ll get there.”

“What if he doesn’t? What happens if he doesn’t ever believe it?”

What if she’s stuck like this forever? What if _he’s_ stuck like this forever?

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

“Even so.” He shrugs. “I promise you, I’m doing everything that I can possibly do to help him. I want him to succeed. I believe that he will. But it takes time.”

“What do I do?”

“Carry on as you have been. You being here helps.”

She turns back to Alex, running her fingers across the line of his cheekbones, his jaw.

“He talks to me,” she whispers.

For the first time, Harlow sounds truly surprised. “He does?”

“He’s been going to the cemetery—to my grave. He talks to me there.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“It’s depressing as all hell, but okay, freak.”

“Norma, surely you know that Alex isn’t the most forthcoming with his emotions most of the time. The fact that he’s talking to you, that he’s reaching out- it means that he might be starting to sense your presence. You’re one step closer.”

It still doesn’t feel like much.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

It's a beautiful day, and for a blissful minute she's able to just pretend that they're not in a graveyard. Instead, they're on a picnic, the whole rest of their lives together still in front of them, and the hollowed-out look has left Alex's eyes.

"You fucked up my laundry, by the way."

Startled out of her daydream, Norma scoffs. "I did no such thing. I'm amazing at laundry."

"I don't know if you had a secret cocktail of detergent and fabric softener hidden under the floorboards or something, but I can't get it right no matter what I try." He rubs agitatedly at his sleeve. "All of my shirts feel wrong."

"Now you're just being dramatic."

"They itch or something, I don't know. I never should have let you do my laundry again."

"Excuse you, _let me_ do your laundry?"

"Practically ripped it out of my hands the first time you saw me heading for the machine-"

"You had colors mixed in with your whites," she protests, "like a _frat boy_ -"

"-but I should have just done it myself, survived perfectly fine doing it my way all this time."

"-and you were going to put way too much into the machine at once."

He quiet for a stretch, and she spends the time pretending that it's because she won the argument. Truth be told, she hadn't minded doing his laundry. It's like she'd told him—she actually likes doing laundry. It's relaxing.

"I just- I think I just liked that you were trying to take care of me. No one's ever…" He trails off, face collapsing. Shaking his head, he rubs his hand across his eyes roughly, mutters at the ground, "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters,” she insists, feeling impossibly tender towards him.

His eyes are still damp when he finally looks up at her headstone again.

"You fucked up my laundry, Norma."

She fucked up a lot more than that. “I’m so sorry."

His mouth twitches in a barely-there smile, almost like he heard her, but the timing is off by too many seconds, his gaze too far to her left.

She flinches when he says it, just as he always says it, soft and earnest and _broken_ ,

"I still love you."

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

It's a seemingly ordinary Wednesday afternoon and Alex is in, bar none, the absolute foulest mood she's ever seen him in. He’s made at least two of the office staff cry. He’s sent multiple phone calls from Dylan and various others straight to voicemail throughout the day.

By the time he gets home that evening she’s worried he might put a fist through the wall or something equally dramatic and self-harming.

She’s partially right, she thinks without any satisfaction, when he picks up his keys from where he’d dropped them not moments before and drives to the closest liquor store. Doing exactly what she hopes he won’t, he makes his purchase and drives straight to the cemetery, taking the bottle of liquor with him when he exits the car and makes the now-familiar walk.

The bottle is open before they reach her grave, and he drops to ground heavily once they’re there.

She’s never been this worried about him.

He's deep into his bottle by the time he finally speaks, slurring his words together sloppily.

“S’the day my mom died."

And all of the pieces regarding the preceding hours fall into place.

"Dumbest fucking thing, d’you know it crossed my mind a while back that at least I'd have you this year? That it'd be easier?" Staring at the bottle, he swirls the liquid around inside. "Not even done missing her, and now you're-"

He winces, takes a long drink.

"Wish you'd met her. She'd've been nuts about you." He cracks a too-brief smile at whatever picture forms in his mind. "Christ, you would've gotten along so well. Probably would've driven me crazy."

Norma stares, breathless. For all his declarations of love, for all the many ways he's shown his regard for her, this is…

He wants her to have known his mother. Thinks his mother would have liked her.

"She'd want you to keep her ring, s’why I gave it back to you. Supposed to be yours."

It's his mother's ring?

He gave her _his mother's ring_?

"Did I tell you? That it was hers?" Drunken confusion furrows his brow. "Was her grandmother's. Always liked that ring—when I was little she'd tell me that one day I'd give it to the love of my life. She'd say stuff like that, used to make me laugh. _The love of my life_."

He scrubs messily at the tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Why-" His voice breaks.

Another drink.

Then, looking for all the world like a lost little boy,

"Why'd you both leave me?"

Something inside of her contorts painfully. Agonizingly. It feels, ironically, like she’s dying.

"I didn't," she sobs, panicked tears flowing unchecked, desperate for him to finally just _hear her_. "I _didn't_ , I swear, I didn't mean to-"

“I know I’m nothing special, but I loved you so much. Wouldn't have left you if you'd let me stay. Not ever."

 _Nothing special._ He doesn’t know how much she values him. He doesn’t know how much she _adores_ him.

" _Love_. Not loved." He stumbles to correct his previous statement. "Still. Promised."

“Until death do us part," she chokes out.

"And _fuck_ 'til death do us part. S’bullshit. Going to be yours forever."

He raises the near-empty bottle in a toast to her headstone.

"Still love you."

For his sake, she’s beginning to wish that he didn’t.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

On tumblr ([x](http://anextrapart.tumblr.com/post/158532032433/i-can-almost-see-you-part-ii))


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